Gimmeoxygen's Blog

January 26, 2010

Nietzsche Baked a Mean Cake!

Filed under: Uncategorized — Ruby Dabling @ 8:43 pm
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NIETZSCHE ANGEL FOOD CAKE

 1. Allow the angel to reach room temperature. Then kill it.

 2. Kill God. Set Him aside.

 3. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.

4. Ecstatically whip, as if possessed by a storm-wind of freedom, 1-1/2 cups of excellent egg whites with 1/4 tsp. salt and 1-1/2 tsp. cream of tartar. Continue until peaks are as if raised to their own heights and given wings in a fine air, a robust air.

5. Gradually add 3/4 cup sugar, about 3 tbsp. at a time.

 6. You are brilliant.

7. Now, add 1 tsp. vanilla and 1/4 tsp. almond extract, and then sift together 1-1/4 cups flour and 3/4 cup sugar.

 8. Blend in God and the angel. Emboldened, add the egg mixture.

9. Gaze into the überbatter. The überbatter will gaze into you.

10. While prancing about in a frenzy of self-satisfaction and anticipation, use a rubber scraper to push the überbatter into an ungreased 10″ tube pan, for it is destined to be there.

11. Bake on a lower rack until done, usually 35-40 minutes, while reciting to the upper rack a long, convoluted anecdote about your childhood.

 12. Invert the tube pan over a bottle for a few hours. Then impetuously rap the pan. Shout, “Aha!” and slide a knife along the pan’s insides.

 13. Call what tumbles out a cake if you dare. Call it miraculous even.

14. Eat it. It is delicate, morbid, loveable, and you will die depressed, delirious, and overweight.

***********

I didn’t  write this – though I wish I did.  If anyone knows the person who DID pen this gem, please let me know, and I’ll give him or her credit here…plus they’ll have a new fan!

***********

Thanks to Hannah, I discovered the author of this piece is Rebecca Coffey.  Rebecca, you gave me a mile-wide smile when I first read this!

January 21, 2010

The Squeal in Aisle Three

Filed under: Uncategorized — Ruby Dabling @ 4:48 pm
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Yesterday, while I was grocery shopping, I sauntered down aisle three in search of honey not knowing the drama that would ensue from this act.  The honey I wanted wasn’t stocked.  There were two lonely bottles waaaaay at the back of the shelf, so I stuck my trusting, little paw in to claim one, and – when I did – a SPIDER ran over my hand, up my arm and into the sleeve of my coat.

I squealed.  I shrieked.  I was so busy screaming, “Oh!  Oh!  Oh!” while shaking my arm, peeling my coat off, and leaping up and down doing the Eek!  It’s a Spider! dance that I didn’t realize what was happening in front of me.

I don’t know what kind of a noise I made when the spider assaulted me.  It was shrill, and it was loud.  It was, in fact, startling enough to cause the woman in front of me to drop, and shatter, the jar of blueberry preserves she’d been holding.  A large chunk of the glass bounced up, and embedded itself deep into the calf of her leg.  She was shrieking and bleeding, I was shrieking and dancing…everyone else was, of course, staring.

Lady, I am sorry that you were hurt.  It’s obvious you needed a suture or two, and I feel terrible about that.  I wish I could have apologized on the spot, but, you see, it wasn’t my fault – you’ve got to blame the spider that attacked me.  I would have been more attentive to your distress, but I was preoccupied because I didn’t know where the spider went.  I wanted to strip down on the spot.  I was sure that it was, still, in my clothes.  This is why I was slapping myself and Oh, God!ing instead of paying attention to the small river of blood that was running down your leg into your gray suede pumps.  My fear of those eight-legged terrorists is greater than the need to observe social graces.  Besides, you were the one the store manager trundled off to be fussed-over and taken care of.  I was the one left to look like the neurotic geek I am – still slapping, still jiggling, still convinced I had a fat, juicy brown recluse lurking in my clothing (I live in fear of the brown recluse as  it is so common out here, and so many people I know have been bitten by the nasty, venomous things).

I, then, behaved in the mature manner one would expect of me.  I abandoned my cart, ran to my car, drove home like a bat out of hell, stripped my clothing off, and jumped into the shower…all the while Oh, God!ing like the maniac that I am.

Yeah, I’m a warrior, all right…  As long as we aren’t talking about spiders, I will kick ass.

Now, I have to go to the grocery store – I think I’ll go to a different one today where I’m not quite so fresh in the memory of any of the staff who saw me – and I will do my best to maintain a low profile…….

January 15, 2010

Can’t Avoid It

Filed under: Uncategorized — Ruby Dabling @ 7:14 pm
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Things have been going too well for me the past few days.  The sun has been shining, and it’s warm enough to go walking with just a sweater on.  My dog has been feeling well enough to be her old, perky self.  Nothing has broken or needed repairing around the house.  My friends haven’t been in crisis mode.  I’ve slept well. 

This only leads me to believe that I will be eaten by werewolves sometime this week.  There’s no avoiding it.  I’m doomed.  If you don’t hear from me ever again, I just thought you’d like to know why.

Is that howling I hear?

January 12, 2010

Free Labor?

Filed under: Uncategorized — Ruby Dabling @ 8:02 pm
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Gah…

Have you ever mentioned a problem or a project to someone, and they’ve taken it upon themselves to assume that problem or project?

Earlier in the week, I told Gloom I’d gotten the tile, and other materials, to lay down a new kitchen floor, but that the one thing I wasn’t able to buy at Home Depot was the energy to complete the task.

I wasn’t hinting.  I like home maintainance.  To date, I’ve replaced the garbage disposal; put new carpeting in my bedroom; replaced most of the windows; built three of my bookcases; renovated my kitchen cabinets; and did the hundred-and-one small chores that need to be done around the house.  I’ve made a LOT of mistakes, corrected them, and enjoyed learning as I’ve gone along.  I probably would have spent less money if I’d had professionals do the jobs as mistakes can be very expensive, but I discovered that I like doing these things for my home.  It makes me feel good to know I’m improving my nest.

However…

Bright and (way too) early, Gloom and his brother, Belly (so named because he is thin as can be, but can devour amazing quantities of food), arrive at my house full of good intentions to tile my floor for me.  They were so enthusiastic, and so high on the idea of doing a Good Deed, that I couldn’t turn them away, so I let them turn a job that should have taken a day into three.

Three days of having to cook for them, and provide them with Sam Adams out of, you see, gratitude.  Three days of applying antiseptic and Band-Aids to boo-boos, and listening to Gloom cuss Belly out for being…well, Belly.  One of Bellys’ favorite ways to amuse himself is to maneuver himself into a strategic position, and fart in Glooms’ face.  This never failed to cause Belly to collapse on the floor in helpless laughter, and send Gloom into fits.  Twice, Gloom walked out on the job vowing never to return, and, once, he grabbed a tile knife and threatened to shove it up Bellys’ offending orifice – which resulted in a tussle that lasted until they knocked my cookie jar off the counter and smashed it.

Three days of listening to country music.

Three days of wiping pee off the bathroom floor since neither one of them, apparently, has good aim.

My ‘free’ labor seems to have costs me quite a bit.  The least of which is a painful jaw from grinding and gritting my teeth for three days.  From now on, home improvement projects will be treated with the same secrecy as is applied to the drafting of the health care bill none of us are allowed to see.  I have a few more things I want to do, but you’ll have to obtain clearance for me to tell you.

December 15, 2009

Big Dick, the Fixit Man

Filed under: Uncategorized — Ruby Dabling @ 8:02 pm
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Sunday, friends of mine attended a baptism where they were to be named godparents, and they had me watch their only child, Sarah.  This leads me to question their intelligence as I am not child-proofed, but I didn’t mind having one of the smaller minions from Hell spend the afternoon with me.

Sarah is a 5 yr. old cutie – all curly brown hair and dark, solemn eyes with dimples when she smiles.  She is bright, curious, engaging, and she scares the snot out of my dog, though – to be fair – BuKi lives in mortal terror of all children who like to pull on her silky ears and tail.  BuKi immediately went into hiding under my bed when she arrived.

Because of being diabetic, BuKi needs to be fed at precise intervals and given insulin.  To change her schedule results in her sugar being thrown off, and it can take days to reestablish good levels.

I was trying to coax the dog out from under the bed by tempting her with a vet-approved snack of broiled chicken while Sarah sat on the bed offering helpful suggestions of ways to get BuKi to come out.

“Swat her with the broom!”

“Sarah, that’s not nice.  We don’t hit animals with brooms.”

“Throw a shoe at her!” crowed the hellspawn.

I’m laying on the floor wagging a piece of chicken at a terrified dog.  “Broom…shoe…  Are your parents aware that they are raising one of the Children of the Corn?  Do you think I should set fire to the bed?”

“Yes!  Yes!  Burn up the bed!”  She was bouncing, and dust was filtering down on me, so I told her to stop it NOW, and be still.

“My mother says you’re cranky with her,”  said the moppet from the Inferno.

“She does?  Well, I suppose I am at times.  Everyone gets cranky.  It’s okay as long as you don’t say mean things to hurt someone’s feelings.”  (See?  I can be a role model!)  Sarahs’ mother can be very ditzy and she talks too much.  There have been times when I’ve snapped at her in self-defense.

“My daddy says you need Big Dick, the Fixit Man, ” the little snitch reveals further.

I put my head down and bit my hand to avoid laughing.  I thought, “If this was a  movie, this is the audiences’ cue to snicker at the precocious child” and I said, “Your daddy is a Neanderthal.”  Let little Miss Tattletale take that home and see how it translates.  “Your daddy is a knuckle-dragging no-neck.”

She laughs.  Adults are endlessly entertaining to children.  We’ve always been their favorite toys.

BuKi, finally, comes out, grabs the chicken, glares at Sarah, and dashes into the kitchen to scarf down her meal.  I have to prevent Sarah from following, so a tickle session is in order.

“Stop!  Stop it!  I have to pee!”  ALWAYS believe a child when they say this.  I don’t know much about parenting, but I’ve learned this much.

Fed, medicated, BuKi retreats under the bed, and – to pass the time – Sarah and I play a card game she invented.  I forget the name of it, but I think it was called “SARAH ALWAYS WINS NO MATTER WHAT”.  After an extended winning streak, I advised her to run away to Vegas and introduce this fabulous game, become rich, and keep her parents in a kennel in back of her mansion.  That’ll serve ’em right for asking me to babysit…

Soon, the ‘rents are back, and after they bundle up their bundle of joy, they leave, and I wait until they are in the driveway to do what I had been patiently waiting to do all afternoon.  I yell “Donnie!” and when he turns around, all smiles,  I say, “The next time you run into Big Dick, the Fixit Man, you tell him that I said hello, k?” and shut the door before he could answer.

I think I might like having kids around, you know?

You know I waited for two hours to do that, don’t you?  Of course you do.

December 11, 2009

Long Live the Queen

My sweet friend, Hannah, sent me this pic as she strolled around Seattle.  Her blog, Letters to Henry,  is one of the places I most like to be when I’m online here, and you’d do yourself a favor to look her up.

While I love the pic, I was a bit disappointed to discover that the 3$ Greyhounds mentioned on the sign didn’t involve actual greyhound squeezin’s.  I’m sure that the greyhounds are much relieved by that, but…

It’s been too cold here to do much of anything but sit in front of the fire and pretend I’m at a fabulous Swiss ski resort.  A few nights ago it was 35 below zero with the wind chill, and so cold that a bottle of water I’d sat on the table beside my bed had a thin layer of ice on it when I went to take a drink during the night.  I have the heat up, sure, but this is such a drafty place that I might as well be sleeping outside.  Both the dog and I are wearing thermals these days – how sexy an image is that? – and I have on so many layers of clothing that I feel like one of those overdressed children trying to play in a snowsuit.

I’ve caught up on a lot of work, but…I don’t like working this much.  In fact, on my list of Things I’d Rather Do, working falls below braiding the hair between Rosie O’Donnels’ cheesy toes.  It’s made me think about becoming a bum in some warmer climate.

I’d be a good bum.  I have a dramatic flair, plus – being on the small, slight side – I could engender more sympathy as I stagger towards my targets with my little paw out.  I’d follow them, too, if they didn’t gimme a dollar.  I’d press my little nose up against the glass of the windows of the restaurants they dine at; I’d stand outside their house, leaving urine stains on their sidewalk, with tears running down my face; I’d follow them to work and tell their co-workers that they promised to buy me a pot pie if I had sex with them…but they LIED; they didn’t gimme no pot pie!  At some point, my reputation would precede me, and on seeing me approach, people would simply fling money at my feet, and run away…fast.

I’d become the Queen in my torn, gold, evening gown and bent rhinestone tiara, and I would wave my snot-encrusted hands, smiling, at the crowds who came to beg for an audience with me, their beloved Queen.  (And I wouldn’t allow them one unless they brought me a pot pie, dammit!)  So…you all had better be nice to me because, eventually, you will want to say that you knew me when I was just a commoner, bitching about the cold…

December 7, 2009

I AM A #@!*% LADY!

Filed under: Uncategorized — Ruby Dabling @ 5:34 pm
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Years ago, I saw something that made me laugh for days.  A woman in a striped dress – a behemoth! something normally seen on a tether in a parade! – was using her purse to beat the crap out of a man while screaming, “I AM A FUCKING LADY, AND YOU CAN’T TREAT ME THIS WAY, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!” and so on.

She continued to beat him, and to scream, until he – finally! – straightened-up, balled-up his fist and gave her a good poke in the snoot.  No one there would say she didn’t deserve it.

Immediately, she began to appeal to the people watching.  Did we see that?  Did we see him strike her?  A woman?  Would anyone, please, help her?

As a group, the crowd turned, and dispersed.  Scenes like this aren’t uncommon in the city, and it takes more to keep the interest of spectators.  I was on the bus stop bench near them, though, and close enough to hear the man when he said, “Oh, for shits’ sake, Angie, why do you have to get like this?  You know I can’t be all bruised-up on Saturday – it’ll show up on our wedding pictures!”

The woman brushed off her dress and said, “Yeah, you’re right.  We gotta lifetime to fight about it.”

It was funny at the time, but something tells me that – if Angies’ husband has survived her tender attentions – this couple is still together while many others have fallen in battle and parted.  Why?  Because they’d already seen their monsters before they tied the knot.  They knew each other.  There’d be no surprises after the “I do”.

I was married.  Briefly.  I was young, my mother was dying, and I was an emotionally needy scrap of humanity wanting someone, something to anchor me.  I didn’t have enough life experience to understand that the only valid strength you can depend on is your own, so I was trying to borrow his.

We clawed and tore at each others’ psyches for a little while before deciding that parting was the only rational option we had, but I’ve known so many couples who hate each other and grimly carry on and on and on, both disappointed in who they are.  This is something I’ve never been able to understand.

I like to imagine that the sparring couples’ monsters eventually died, or slipped into comas, or ran away to Bermuda and that Angie and her husband discovered that they’d married their best friend, so it’s okay to be good to each other.  I like to see them, in my imagination, sitting together in the evening, hand in hand, and chuckling at how they used to behave.

Yeah.

No idea why I wrote about this, but I did, so…there…

December 4, 2009

Your Rent-A-Mommy is Here, Ruby!

Filed under: Uncategorized — Ruby Dabling @ 6:01 pm
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Not a good day.  Today is a day for cuddling up with my dog, and reading in front of the fire.  I’m deep into Ian McEwans’ ATONEMENT anyway…(Good author, btw; always an excellent read).

It is not fair, not fair at all, on days like this, that I am not four-years-old with a warm, chubby mommy I can lay my head on as she pats my back, and tells me everything is all right…okay…all right.  They should have Rent-A-Mommy outlets for days like this, shouldn’t they?  Someone to bring us mugs of hot chicken soup, and to tuck the blankets in for us.  Will some enterprising soul please take this idea and run with it?

Have you ever seen those pictures of the pathetic, baby motherless monkeys in captivity who cling to that fur-covered, fake monkey-mother board?  Well, that’s who I am today, only it’s a LaZBoy and a ratty afghan, so – feel sorry for me, dammit!

I’d suck my thumb, but I don’t know where it’s been…

December 3, 2009

Kara and the Art of Brooding

Filed under: Uncategorized — Ruby Dabling @ 4:48 am
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I’m tired of writing about my (yeeech) relatives.  Let slumbering Neanderthals lie…

Spent the even ing with friends.  One of my favorite people here – Kara- was there.  The girl is almost too funny – I’m sitting here with sore ribs after spending a few hours with her and the rest.

She was talking about her prolific love life – she has the soul of a rabbit in estrus, and the face of a blonde angel, so Kara is a busy, busy girl – and said she wasn’t going to go out with anyone who isn’t fat or freakish-looking anymore.  We asked why, of course, and she said, “I’ve discovered something great!  If you’re with a fat or funny-looking guy, you can fart any time you want to because everyone automatically assume it was him!  Imagine the freedom!”  Because we encouraged her by laughing, she went on but became a little too graphic for me to write about here.  She had us falling off our chairs, though, and it felt so goood to laugh after spending the week with the People from Planet Polyester.

It felt good to go out, too.  That doesn’t mean I’ll become a social butterfly – I was the first to leave, and glad to get home again – but perhaps it means I’m finally getting tired of isolating myself.  I don’t know, though.  I’ve gotten quite good at brooding, and now that it’s cold enough I can sit in front of the fire and really get my brood on.  Do you know anyone who dresses to brood?  You do now.  It’s best done in the most comfy of pajamas, and a pair of red socks; and a shabby, but beloved, afghan is essential.  I take my brooding seriously.  All part of my training to become a hopelessly complicated and thoroughly neurotic recluse when I grow up.  Once I’ve complete the course in Brooding, I’ll take up Regrets, and it’s attendant, Self-Pity.  That’s when the fun really starts, I hear.

The reason it’s taking me so long to complete my training is because I’m not unhappy.  It’s very hard to brood when you’re not unhappy, let me tell you, so I’m sure you can appreciate the effort I need to put into it.  I did find out, though, that there’s so much global misery I can brood about that, so I don’t need to be unhappy myself.  That might not count, or seem like cheating, to those who have earned their brooding the old-fashioned way, but I’m young enough that I can still entertain hopes of being beaten-down and thoroughly crushed by life, although for that I suppose I’d have to become involved with a seriously abusive man (or go back east and live with my family), and I’m not keen on either option.

How is it possible to write all those words without saying anything?  (Hannah, I wish I had your depth, but I’m as shallow as a sun puddle…).  I’m going to end this, make a cup of tea, and get a pair of red socks out.  Practice, babies, practice!

November 17, 2009

Seven Pounds of Vet Bills

Filed under: Uncategorized — Ruby Dabling @ 6:32 pm
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I was up late working on my finances (insert sarcastic laugh at the word ‘finances’).  One of the piles were the bills for BuKi, my Chinese Crested, who is diabetic, blind, arthritic, suffering from Canine Cognitive Disorder (doggie Alzheimer’s), and prone to infections of the anal glands (don’t ask), and ears.  The breed has notoriously soft teeth, too.  So much so that they are the only breed I know of who can be missing teeth and still qualify in dog shows.  She’s had extensive dental work that includes four root canals.

I added up what I’ve spent to support the cur this year, and it came to over four thousand dollars.

Four thousand dollars.

I looked down at her.  She was, as usual, staring up at me, creeping me out.  “I want to tell you something I’ve kept from you, Princess PooHeinie SquatsALot.  Do you know how you came to be my dog?  Lemme tell you the story…”

When I was a teen, my mother decided that it was time to teach me the responsibility of caring for another living creature, and that a dog would be the perfect gift for me at Christmas that year.  She went looking for a dog she thought I’d like, and found out about Chinese Cresteds.  They were quite rare then, and very expensive, but she thought they were adorable, and knew I’d love their quirky, Dr. Seuss-like appearance.

She found a breeder.  Looking at all of the dogs available, she was trying to decide when she noticed one that the breeder hadn’t presented as being for sale.  This dog was BuKi.  She was the runt of the litter – underweight, even more slight of frame than the breed is naturally – and they had already tattooed a fancy ‘UFB’ on her tiny belly.  Unfit For Breeding.  They weren’t going to sell her because they hadn’t deemed her worthy.

Of course,  my mother not only fell in love, but the idea of getting a bargain appealed to her.  She managed to talk the breeder into selling BuKi for the lower sum of six hundred dollars (the others were going for twice as much),  and walked away with the breeder still apologizing to her for accepting her money for such a puny beast.

“That’s right, sport – you are a bargain basement dog.  A downtown dog from an uptown breed.  I didn’t want you to ever find that out, but…I want you to suffer a little after looking over all the money that you, a bargain!, have cost me.”  She continued looking at me, and burped.  She burps at me a lot.  I suspect it’s her way of telling me I’m full of hot air.  “And what do you do for me?  I’ve spent half of my life with you, and I do not recall you ever – not once – rubbing my belly or preparing my dinner.  You have never stood beside me in the freezing rain waiting while I pooped so you could pick it up in a ridiculous, little bag.  You haven’t even applied antibiotic ointment to my anal glands, and let me tell you how disgusting THAT is, chickadee.”

“What you HAVE done is cost me a ton of green.  You’ve dragged me on walks in the middle of the night.  You’ve turned your nose up at the dinners I give you.  You’ve puked on everything I own, I think.  You’ve barked in my ear while I was in the middle of a dead sleep just to wake me up and rub your tummy.  On top of all that, you get under the covers in my bed at night and fart like a maniac (it’s awful, it really is – I keep a can of Febreze Extra Strength on my bedside stand).  You are a thoroughly useless and problematic creature, and I am going to make slippers out of you, I am.”  She yawned, turned in a circle, sat down in exactly the same place, and stared on.

I went back to working out a budget for the coming year.  A little later, I feel a very delicate, nearly not there, touch on my leg.  I look down and she is holding out one paw, barely brushing against me.  This is her asking me to, please, pick me up – do you mind? – it’s time for me to be held now.

I do so.  She likes being held in my arms like a baby while I swivel in my chair.  She snuggles into me, and sighs.  In a few minutes, she goes utterly limp as she falls asleep.  She trusts me.  She knows I’ll never hurt her, never drop her, will take care of her…and this goes directly to my withered, blackened heart. 

I’m being held hostage by a farting bit of fluff.

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